


Empire of Dirt

by MyresLight



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-World War II, Rated T for language, but it's kinda low-key, enjoy your manly tears, i'd say this is ooc but we know jack about these guys so w/e, this switches from tragic angst to mushy sap to angst again whOOPS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyresLight/pseuds/MyresLight
Summary: After release from a German POW camp, Farrier returns to England only to be greeted with grave news regarding his former RAF partner.Because I thought that, realistically, Farrier probably has better survival odds at the end of that movie than Collins does.





	Empire of Dirt

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from "Hurt" by Johnny Cash
> 
> Because Dunkirk was amazing and broke me a lil and this is therapeutic  
> In the words of an pal of mine when I said that I was going to write a Dunkirk fanfic- "that's so morally dubious I love it"

The winter of 1945 heralded in many new things to England; a northerly wind, a Labour government, and Flight Lieutenant William Farrier.

Standing on the damp ground at Dover docks, one would have thought that the constant beating of the icy wind would topple the pilot stepping off the British destroyer as, for the first time in five years; he stood with two feet firmly planted on home soil.

If anyone previously acquainted with the man was to look at him, they would fail to recognise him. His hair had grown just past his ears and old clothes hung off him. Much of his time over the past three months had been spent in a small hospital, recovering in the French countryside. But he was alive and home and he had his own personal mission to attend to now.

Ever since capture by Axis powers on the shores of Dunkirk beach, Farrier had known that if nothing else, he was going to find Flying Officer Collins after the war and then… Well, he had just hoped to find the only decent flight partner the Commander had managed to pair him with in four years.

Oh they were far closer that flight partners, Collins had been clear with expressing that, but any reciprocation on Farrier’s end had been left up to Collins to derive from subtext between their meetings. But being forced to live in a glorified labour camp for the better part of five years had certainly allowed Farrier ample reflection time and a slight reshuffling of priorities.

Thoughts of Collins were frequent in the POW camp; often subconscious, and always a welcome distraction from whatever works the German officers had designated him with at a particular time. Apart from anything else, thoughts of the Scottish man were something to covet, and idle daydreams of a long sought-after life after the war were strong motivation to survive the years spent in captivity.

He didn’t have an address for Collins’ house, but the younger man had divulged as much that he originally hailed from a small town some ways south of Inverness, it gave Farrier a starting point if nothing else, and with the right money put in the right pocket, no one would notice papers missing from the office of Squadron 74 hanger and if they did, Farrier wouldn’t be around long enough for court martialling.

* * *

 

Trying to find any sort of important document in the RAF command centre at Whitehall was an administrative nightmare.

Even standing in one place in the building was proving to be a challenge, considering the weight and muscle Farrier had lost. But eventually the crowd pushed him in the way of the personnel secretary- a middle aged woman who was clearly struggling to meet the demands of the crowd but managing very well being the only one manning the desk- where he was able to lean over to talk to her.

“I need the papers for Officer Ewan Collins.”

Not looking up from where she was engrossed in the sorting of several telegrams, the secretary replied, “Squadron number and credentials please.”

Farrier passed over the required materials and was finally, _finally_ , rewarded with a relatively large document holder containing all the information he needed.

He didn’t get beyond the first page, however, when everything stopped. And three words, the worst words, ones that he hadn’t even entertained, stared up at him coldly from where they were stamped across a photograph of Collins’ grinning face.

_Collins, Ewan; KIA_

Struggling for breath, Farrier ran from the hall that was now too warm, the humidity chocking, as he struggled to swallow past the lump in his throat. The pilot pushed past the crowd of people and everything was collapsing onto his chest, vision spinning. Farrier burst from the crowd suddenly, but continued marching towards the nearest alleyway where he final stopped and held himself against the wall, bricks digging into the soft palms of his too-thin hands.

His fist connected with the brick wall again, and again, and again, until blood appeared over the repeated patterns and his hand was numb.

_Collins, Ewan; KIA_

Three words repeated over and over again in his head.

_Collins, Ewan; KIA_

His vision was blurring, a scream was trying to escape from his throat, and _Collins was dead_.

And all at once the fight left him, and he sunk to his knees in utter defeat.

* * *

 

It had taken some digging, but he had managed to locate one of the members of his old cell that was also flying that day. Man by the name of Hewitt. Reliable, but rigid in his following of rules, he was viewed by many in the squadron as a stick-in-the-mud.

Especially Collins.

“Aye, heard that the family buried an empty casket up at his home.”

“Up outside Inverness?”

“Very same. Why, you heading up?” Hewitt fixed him with a strange look, as if challenging why Farrier would feel the need to travel all the way to Inverness and beyond to visit the empty grave of someone he had only known for two years.

If Farrier had the motivation to make up a convenient lie he decided against it. What was the point? The war was over, he was voluntarily discharging from the military, and his widely considered better half was dead.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

* * *

 

The train ride was long, made longer by the miles upon miles of seemingly unchanging upland countryside, but Farrier was numb to it all.

KIA.

Killed in action.

Grave an unmarked pile of dirt in eastern France.

He had one year left until the war was over and some Nazi bastard caught him by surprise.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.

He was supposed to be there.

He was supposed to keep him safe.

* * *

 

It was surprising that news of the war had even reached somewhere this far north. The train lines went as far as Inverness but the next five or so miles to the aged village had to be traversed by alternate means, and cars were an uncommon sight in the highlands.

After arriving in the village it proved to be more trying to locate Collins’ place of birth- his accent immediately pinning him as an outsider to the Gaelic population- and door-to-door questioning was proving to be unsuccessful, yielding brief and vague answers.

Farrier was close to giving up completely when a young boy was able to direct him towards an old dirt road with a description of the cottage he was supposedly looking for.

The house was located a short walk off of an old dirt road. It was small, and didn’t give the appearance of a place where one would willingly live. Combined with the total solitude of the surrounding area, it was hard for Farrier to imagine Collins growing up here. He couldn’t match the desolation of the area with the upbeat and man that had managed to completely alter his life in two years, the same man that he loved even despite himself. The same man who now lay dead.

Approaching the house he began to second-guess himself, he began to doubt if this was even the right house, and whoever opened the door to him would have never heard of the name ‘Collins’.

Raising his arm up he knocked three times, each with more strength and sound to ensure the inhabitants of the house heard him.

Maybe everything amounted to nothing.

His fears were silenced as the woman who answered was so clearly Collins’ mother it was difficult to breathe, as the Englishman was greeted with a pile of straw-blonde hair sat atop a slightly rounded face, with a pair of clear blue eyes that met his with distrust and fear.

The moment stretched on, becoming awkward until the woman spoke up, “If yer here for my son yer a damn sight too late, my family’s already bled fer yer war and paid back what we’re due twice over.” Her eyes were hard, and mouth set in a frown that added years to her otherwise pretty face. “We’ve nothing left tae give.”

“I’m sorry ma’am.” Farrier replied, entirely unsure of how to speak to this woman with eyes that mimicked the dead’s, “my name is William Farrier. I flew with your son during the war.”

“What could you want out here? Nothing left here ‘cept ghosts.” They stood a moment longer, each sizing the other up.

“I… I was close to your son and up until recently I was stuck over in France.”

Her features remained unimpressed.

“I know…his body wasn’t recovered,” he paused, weeks of grief and travel leading up to this moment, “I was wondering if I could see his grave.”

Collins’ mother froze completely, for the first time breaking eye contact with Farrier as she looked down and lost herself in her thoughts momentarily. Looking back up she studied the pilot’s face carefully, testing, seeing something that could only be obvious to someone who had lived, and seen.

Finally, the spinster stepped out from the threshold of her cottage and held out her hand for Farrier to take.

“Lorna Collins.” Her hand was almost as thin as his was when he grasped it, the war had obviously taken its toll on the woman as well.

She dropped his hand and took a deep breath, as if she was trying to make her body larger than its otherwise frail state, preparing herself for a battle of her own. “Follow me.”

* * *

 

Lorna led Farrier around the back of the house and up over small raises in the earth. The silence was complete as two broken souls dragged their feet over heather and peat as the Englishman was led down a path only the frail woman could see, the countryside having seeped into her very bones.

After around twenty minutes of walking the pair arrived at small graveyard that couldn’t have accommodated more than fifty persons.

It wasn’t difficult to find Collins’ grave. It was the newest grave in the lot, having been subject to the elements for less than two years. They came to a stop in front of the final resting place of the only man that had, even unknowingly, held Farrier’s heart.

The pair stood static as both looked over the grave before Lorna broke the silence,

“You fly with Ewan often?”

Farrier looked over briefly, turning his gaze back to the ground, “Yes. Our squadron leader partnered us together May ’39 and we were together up until Dunkirk.”

The older woman’s eyes softened, “Aye, he told us about Dunkirk, they thought you had died, but our Ewan had something else tae say.” She turned her head slightly to face Farrier, “When he came home you were all he could talk about, best damn thing about the RAF.”

Farrier felt his throat start to close over, “Right.” Seeking a rapid change in conversation lest he reveal anything, he tried made an attempt to strike up a conversation about the only thing the two of them seemed to understand. “I’d never have known Ewan came from somewhere as remote as here.”

She scoffed, “Ewan never was contented with life up here,” Lorna paused, chocking on emotion, before bottling it down in an attempt to control her grief, “always running off somewhere. It was no surprise to us when he enlisted.” A weak but gentle smile graced her face briefly, “He always did love watching planes fly, even when he was wee.”

Silence resumed as both were left to their thoughts, uninterrupted until the sun began to dip below the horizon sometime later. The setting light caught Lorna’s attention, “I think it’d be best if we head back, these bones aren’t suited for long walks in the dark.” She turned, expecting Farrier to follow, looking back with mild surprise as he remained where he was.

“If it’s all the same to you actually, I think I’ll follow on by myself.”

Lorna raised her eyebrow, regarding him cryptically. “And why is that?”

Farrier paused, trying to avoid her piercing gaze. “Just have a couple of words...a final goodbye.” He knew it was unconvincing but he couldn’t for the life of him thing of a way to justify his wants to the mother standing before him.

But if she thought something of his choice of words, she didn’t say, merely fixing Farrier with a tired look before she turned and begun the solitary walk back to the grieving house, her minute body becoming smaller and smaller until it disappeared over the brow of the hill.

All at once strength left him, and Farrier collapsed forward onto his knees in front of the gravestone.

_EWAN COLLINS_

_14th March 1919- 24th June 1944_

_Son and Friend_

Water seeped through his trousers, dampening the fabric, and a shiver ran through his broken body. Although he couldn’t say that it came entirely from the cold.

Digging his fingers deep into the soft soil beside him, the smell of wet soil permeated through the air as tears finally started to run down his face as quiet sobs heaved through his chest uncontrolled.

Thoughts of stolen kisses in abandoned air hangers and soft blonde hair through his fingers flashed past his eyes as he let all his grief release in the place where only the dead dwelled.

“I wasn’t there,” Words came unbidden from his mouth, words that were too long silenced. “I _wasn’t there_. I should have watched your back but I didn’t. I’m so sorry Ewan.” As the sobs eased he allowed himself a confession witnessed only by the trimmed grass and stone graves.

“I love you.”

Kissing his hand, he pressed it reverently against the polished stonework, running his fingers over Collins’ name before rising and walking away.

He reached the boundary of the graveyard and turned to look back briefly over the grave. With a tear running down his cheek he left the cemetery for the last time, turning to follow his previous path back to the rest of the world.

And it felt as if eyes followed him as he left.

**Author's Note:**

> Suitable apologies to the relevant parties
> 
> My Tumblr is @nocturnalartemis you can hurl your screams there if you wish x


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